


How To Train Your Sandwich

by Black_Calliope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Brat Pack, M/M, gratuitous mentioning of watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just life. Flowing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Train Your Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> Written because [Tyler Hoechlin's ridiculous smile](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m69277ZdQN1rujawgo1_500.gif) does unspeakable things to my soul. Enjoy!

“Do you remember that time he put a plaster on his _Jeep_?” Lydia giggles, her long, silky hair shining under the living room’s lights as she lightly brushes Derek’s arm with her hand.

And, yeah, Derek remembers it. How he’d stared at the Hulk plaster attached to Stiles’ vehicle and bit on his tongue in the vain attempt of not bursting into laughter right in the kid’s face, how Scott had signaled to him from inside the vehicle, making some sort of  _Abort mission! Abort!_  gestures- His lips curl at the memory, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he recalls Stiles’ affronted expression when he’d literally snorted in his face. “Yeah,” he chuckles.

“Do you remember that time you possessed some sort of general compassion?” Stiles’ voice calls from the kitchen, right before he steps into the room, a tray full of sandwiches in his hands. “Because I don’t.”

From where she is sitting, legs elegantly crossed one over the other, Lydia rolls her eyes and then shoots Derek a sided glance, her cheeky smile widening even more.  _Touchy._

Derek grins back at her, watches, amused, as Stiles places the tray on the coffee table in front of them and then proceeds to smack Jackson’s hand away when it materializes out of nowhere, a threatening presence from which the sandwiches must be protected. “Scott isn’t here yet,” he instructs, lightly kicking Jackson’s calf to underline the plain message of his words.  _Paws off the food, big boy._

Jackson makes a high, offended sound, almost as if Stiles has just hit him on the nose with a newspaper, but he withdraws his hand from the tray anyway, eyeing Stiles kind of resentfully as he does so. “How is that even supposed to discourage me?” he scowls at him, sulking back into the couch.

Lydia pats him on the arm. “It’s not your fault, honey,” she chirps, eyes glinting in a mischievous way as she follows Stiles’ movements, watches him sitting on the armrest beside Derek. “It’s just that it’s  _that time of the month_  for our Stiles here. We should be tolerant.”

Derek’s sudden burst of laughter is loud enough to cover the sputtering, outraged sounds that Stiles makes. “I- What- That doesn’t even-” he derails, red creeping up the smooth line of his neck as he randomly flails his hand at Lydia’s general direction. “I’m not some kind of  _menstruated being_!” he finally manages to reply, eyes huge and cheeks colored with the most adorable shade of red Derek has ever seen. He rests one hand over Stiles’ left thigh, feels the blood deliciously running in his veins as Stiles’ heart beats fast and loudly, the sound smoothly seeping from him to Derek’s fingertips like sand in a hourglass. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

From her spot on the couch, Lydia sniffs in delight, wiggling her perfect eyebrows when Jackson makes a sweet, cooing sound and then breaks into a belly-deep laugh, feet stomping on Derek’s carpet in the failed attempt of containing himself. “Shush, mommy,” she grins, leaning toward Stiles and planting a loud kiss on the middle of his forehead.

“Bitch,” Stiles mutters in reply, but the word comes out more affectionate than belligerent. He smirks when Lydia flashes him a playful, beaming smile, white fangs slightly sinking into the red plumpness of her bottom lip as she moves past him, reaching out to grab a sandwich.

“Hey!” Jackson calls,  _whines_ , suddenly jolting up from his  _my limbs are sprawled in every direction because of reasons_  position.

“What?” Stiles replies, not touched at the least by the offended look he gets. “Have you seen her?” he gestures at Lydia. She eyes them back with the same calm of a queen sitting on her throne and then takes another bite of her sandwich. Derek huffs, buries his smile into the back of Stiles’ shirt as the boy continues, “She’s like a mini T-Rex dressed in Armani clothes, you can’t seriously believe I’m gonna slap her.”

“I’d defend you,” Jackson complains, shooting a heart-breaking, longing glance to the sandwich in Lydia’s hand.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Stiles and Lydia reply in unison. Derek, who enjoys to be just an impartial bystander, snorts, nosing at the cloth covering Stiles’ back and inhaling the faint, beloved scent seeping through the cotton. He lets his other hand slide over Stiles’ hip, fingertips quietly seeking pale, soft warmth and nails deliberately grazing delicate skin on their path, and then Stiles’ hand finds his, his fingers intertwining with Derek’s and heartbeat stuttering imperceptibly- “Scott and Allison are here,” Derek murmurs against the boy’s back.

And suddenly the bell is ringing and Stiles is getting up to get the door. Derek stays where he is, leans against the back of the couch as he watches Scott bumping fists with Stiles, notices how Jackson not-so-sneakily steals a sandwich from the tray before scooting over to make space for Allison, and the way Lydia smiles genuinely to her friend, pecking delicately -  _with familiarity_  - her cheek.

“I’m so hungry I’m gonna eat half of these,” Scott laughs back at something that Stiles has just said.

From the couch, Jackson glares at him, growling playfully. “No, you won’t,” he grins.

When Stiles slides beside him, Derek’s arms are ready to close around him, dragging the boy against his chest as Stiles giggles and tilts his head back. “Promise you’ll keep them from spilling blood on the brand new carpet,” he murmurs, happy and relaxed, nuzzling at the faint stubble under Derek’s chin.

“I will bitchslap you two into the afterlife if you don’t sit down.  _Now_ ,” Derek hears Lydia hiss from the nearby couch, the sound of Allison giggles filling the air like clinking, colorful glass marbles, he listens as Scott’s and Jackson’s heartbeats suddenly - finally - subside to a quieter rhythm.

“Don’t worry,” he smiles against Styles’ ear, “I think that the carpet is safe for today.”

Stiles’ skeptical hum is barely perceptible under the sound of chatter and laughter resonating around them, just a low, trembling sound vibrating inside his chest, but Derek hears it anyway, presses his lips against Stiles’ temple-

“Scott! Behave!”

“Oh, God,  _guys_ , leave the damn remote alone!”

“What are you gonna do, McCall, piss on it and  _claim it_?”

Derek groans, because of course things are quickly spiraling out of control and what with Jackson mentioning golden showers and Derek’s properties in the same phrase? “Or maybe not,” he grumbles, stressed.

But, as he loosens his grip around Stiles’ waist and starts barking orders at the two pups wrestling on the floor, somewhere in his mind his wolf yawns and stretches, content.

Just life. Flowing.


End file.
